


The Professor

by CynaraM



Series: The Professor [1]
Category: Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: AU, Ambiguous Age, Classroom Sex, Dominance, F/M, Romance, Shameless Smut, Submission, Teacher-Student Relationship, avert your eyes Howard, classroom au, glovefic, id vortex, professional misconduct, such glovefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9846248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynaraM/pseuds/CynaraM
Summary: Feelings -  or even desires - may occur in the context of a professional relationship, even that between teacher and student.  It's a pity neither of our subjects are very good at playing by the rules when they can make up their own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't my fault. I mean, obviously it is, but not entirely. I shared this depraved little idea and was convinced (by people who will remain anonymous to protect their reputations) that it needed to happen. 
> 
> NB that, while I am personally confident that Leonie is of age, it is left ambiguous in the text. There's no denying this situation is for fantasy purposes only, etc. Bad professor. Very bad. 
> 
> I'm going to go die quietly in a corner now.

Class was over. Leonie was packing her books away slowly. The room was empty except for her and Professor Cabal the first time he spoke to her outside of class. He sat behind his desk, working in the notebook he always opened as soon as class was over. “Barrow, your uniform is disarranged. See to it.” She ducked her head to look. She did up the wayward button, slower than she had to. His hand tapped restlessly on the desk. 

“Sorry, Herr Professor.” 

“ ‘Sir’ is sufficient, Barrow.”

“Yes, Herr Professor, sir.” And she was away before he could correct her again. Success.

The next time it happened, she hadn’t planned it. He came across her in the halls. It was early - she was often at school early - and he was just arriving, judging by his bag and topcoat. He gave her a tight nod, saw something, and slowed, staring at her. She stopped as well. “Professor?”

“School policy clearly forbids lip paint.” And he took her chin in his hand and pulled a folded white handkerchief from his pocket. She only saw his eyes, blue and clear. With two hard swipes, left to right and right to left, he removed the offending slick of rose. Her lips tingled from the abrasion of the linen. “That’s ‘sir,’ Barrow.” He released her chin and left her. It took ten minutes for her heartbeat to slow.

But when she wore it the next day, lifting her chin proudly so he could see it, he pretended not to see.

***

Her eyes strayed from the front of the room where the stoichiometry notes were scribed in his careful, even hand. She had been watching him, of course. He was walking up and down between the rows of desks, his heels tapping out an even tempo on the floor. As he approached, heads bent to notes, the rate of scribbling increased. No-one wanted to be the first to attract his attention. Prof. Cabal’s reproofs were scathing and specific. 

They didn’t sting, though, or at least they didn’t sting her. They were evenly distributed, and there was something impersonal in them. He didn’t hate you for being a threat to his authority, the way some lecturers did. That was strange, because he was young, and the young ones were usually the worst; they thought they had to prove something. Cabal didn’t try to prove anything at all. 

She loved watching him. The catlike way he wiped his gloves of chalk residue. His mouth, that thinned in irritation or quirked in a passing instant of amusement. His eyes were a cool, clear blue, and they assessed and discarded. She noticed the sharp angle of his jaw, the tap of his leather-soled shoes on the classroom linoleum, the near-identical black suits. The ridiculous blue glasses he wore outdoors, which somehow didn’t look silly on him; did he have some sort of eye condition? She was fixated. And yet, she didn't want him to soften, to smile at her, to make shy jokes like some of the younger lecturers. She wanted all that focus on herself. She was so busy picturing what that might be like, that it took her several key seconds to realize that his steps had slowed and he was standing over her. 

It was partly visible. His black-gloved hand slid the notepaper to the side, paused, and covered the transgression again. “After class, Barrow.”

Her cheeks were flaming, she knew. This was genuinely rather embarrassing.

Thirty agonizing minutes later she sat before the professorial desk; a sturdy object, made of well-varnished oak. Leonie’s textbook lay open on the desk between them. 

“I hear that your behaviour in every other class is exemplary. Perhaps you should switch.” His gaze was uncommonly steady. He didn't blink as he paid out the words, one after another, like a man setting a net. 

“No thank you, sir.”

“You are obviously capable of attending your classes on time, in your proper uniform…’ his eye lingered on the hem of her skirt, which was rolled four inches higher than it had been in her last class. “But you choose not to exercise those abilities here.” His voice was pitched quieter than she’d ever heard it. “You answered question four on last week's test with some trashy verse….”

“That was Dante, sir.”

“Exactly. But you knew the answer. Why did you do it?”

To get his attention, of course. To find herself here, alone with him. 

“…And now,’ he said with distaste in his voice, “this.”

He prodded the textbook. She had altered it with pencil, and she had been in the process of inking it in when she was interrupted.

“Why did you deface the picture of Doctor Armstrong?”

It was a difficult question to answer. Doctor Armstrong was by far the youngest and most attractive chemist pictured in the text. That, and a certain strength of feature had made it relatively easy, by the pencilled addition of a severe black suit, a Homburg hat, and a few minor modifications to the shading, to change his appearance. Of course, it was the flamboyant banner encircling the caricature reading “Herr Doktor Professor Graf Jo-Johannes Caballesque” that made the whole thing difficult to pass off as a slip of the pencil. It was wretchedly silly. 

“Would you call that defacement, Professor? I mean, sir? I thought it was an improvement.” And she sat there, heart in her throat, waiting for his reply.

“You watch me.”

“Sir?”

“You watch me. The other students avoid my eye. And when you watch me…”

Her face heated. She could feel the tide of blood flooding her chest, her neck, her cheeks, her forehead. How did he know? How could he know? That she watched the curl of his lip because it gave her a shiver? That she watched his hands competent on lab equipment and imagined them on her? That she memorized the crack of his voice across the classroom to remember at night, when she touched herself and whispered his name?

“You should transfer to a different class. It would not be questioned. I am known to be unpleasant, and your marks are excellent, despite your lack of enthusiasm.”

She didn’t know where she found the daring. She looked him dead in the eye, with as much meaning as she could, and said “I don’t want to transfer. Sir.”

“Stand up.” She stood facing him across his huge desk. “Eyes front.” 

She found a spot directly in front of her - it was a capital ’S’ in the notes on the board - and her gaze was fixed on it, pinned to the spot. He was standing now. He walked around the desk to her. He felt tall; he was towering over her. 

“Undo your shirt.” It snapped out of him, almost against his will.

She forgot to breathe out; she raised her hands to the top button and steadily, with only the faintest shaking, undid one button. 

“Stop.” She did. He took a breath, spoke more quietly. “You should leave. Surely, it is clear to you that you should leave, walk down to the office, and request a transfer out of my class.” She didn’t give a reply. She didn’t move her eyes. She raised her hands to her chest and undid her shirt buttons, one after the other, until they were all undone. And with each button, it was as if everything else dropped away: her home, her worries, even the rest of the building. It was just her, blood pounding in her ears, a lightness growing in her head, and him, a little behind her where she couldn’t see him, but a heat and an energy radiating from him like the sun. His next question shocked her.

“Are you hoping to improve your grades?” 

She was stung, furious. Rules forgotten, she whipped her head around and glared at him. He stood out of arm’s reach, but quite close, a guarded expression on his face. “Of course not! As if I had to get special favours for that!” 

“No, you don’t.” And that seemed to relax him, a little. Something crept into his voice again. “Put your elbows on the desk.” He circled back in front of her, on the other side of the desk.

This was a dream. It could be, if it wasn't for his hand clenched tight beside his thigh. She leaned over slowly, from the waist, letting her open shirt gape down. He looked, his eyes lingering over her breasts. Her pulse tripped.

“Open your hands, palms up.”

She turned her palms up, open but not flat. A suppliant’s gesture. It felt archaic, an ancient slave’s obeisance. 

Four crisp footfalls to the classroom door, and the sound of him locking it from the inside. She felt a thrill of discomfort as the heavy tumblers dropped home, and she suddenly felt the danger of her position. Alone, the school day over, the office emptying. He had told her, almost begged her to go. Did he have ten young women buried in a yard somewhere? He walked back towards her, working at something small he held in his hand, and she wondered if she should call it off, if it was too late to back out. 

He put a key in her open palm. The door key, from his own keyring. He had put the power to unlock it, to go, in her hands. She relaxed even as he stepped back from her, away from the door so she could leave without approaching him. Was it also an ultimatum: take this, or leave it? He was waiting, she realized, for a sign. She closed her fingers over the key until it dug into her skin.

When he took two fast steps forward, put his gloved hand in her hair, and pulled her head back, she felt completely safe.

It brought her face to his, almost, and her lips were parted, ready for a kiss, for anything. But his lips were set in a line, and when he saw her looking at them, his eyebrows pulled together in a disapproving frown. She understood: bad girl, wanting to kiss her professor. He looked at her face, and then down; the strain of this position thrust her breasts out; she hoped he liked them. She shivered when they touched the rough coolness of the wood. He let her hair go, but she kept her head up, where he positioned her.

His fingertips were in the small of her back, forcing it down below the level of her hips. It made her spine curve deep, thrusting her rump in the air like an animal that wants to be mated. When she felt the cool leather of his touch sliding up the back of her thigh, she could have cried out with pleasure and suspense. Up, up her leg, the trail of sensation possessing her whole consciousness, but not between her thighs. She hardly had time to feel disappointed when he flipped her skirt over her back.

The air of the room felt cool on her bottom. She wondered if he could tell she was wet inside her drawers. And then his hand on her rear again, her thigh, squeezing and examining. What now? Oh god, what now?

“That will be all, Barrow.”

And just like that, it was over. She stood up, did up her blouse. He fixed the part in her hair. But something very not fixable had started inside her. When she left, she took his key. He's clever, he’ll get another. But this one is hers.


	2. Chapter 2

He pays her no special attention in class. His eyes pass over her in the crowd. She thinks he is finished after that odd little scene, regretted it maybe, but she lags behind the others and looks him in the eye. And something in his eyes rises to meet her look, something hot before which her challenging gaze drops, and she feels a tightening of fear and delight. “When?” she whispers.

“Now.” 

She holds out the key, and he takes it and locks the door. When he turns back, she is bent over the desk, her hands extended. She's a quick learner, and she is so eager. He places the key in her hand. She folds her fingers over it. When she walks home after, she looks at the impression it left in her hand, when her fist closed over it.

But he's still barely touched her.

The next time, something has changed. It's as if he was testing her, and she's passed. His hand is firmer on her, harder in her hair, circling her throat with the other, caressing, threatening. She could weep with arousal. He won't let her rub her breasts on the table; he caught on to that quickly. She whimpers, and he gentles a hand down her back, petting, soothing. 

“ _Schatzelein_. Be patient.”

They go on like that. And he never tells her to touch him. She has tried to rub her face on him, to make any contact, but that earned her a hard pair of slaps on her behind that stung, then burned, then heated. That wasn't really unpleasant (not at all), but it was a message.

Once, she asked him, “are you doing this with anyone else?”

“No!” Now he was offended. Apparently debauching two students was where Prof. Cabal drew the line.

“Have you ever?”

“Never,’ and he swallowed “with a student.”

One day, he drilled her in their upcoming test, pulling the chain clipped to her nipples when she got an answer wrong. She got them all right, until her attention flagged and she started to give wrong answers. He immediately switched to questions of such savage abstruseness and obscurity that she was moaning, wracking her brains for the answers that would give her a respite, trying to disguise her furtive rocking against the hard chair. He always caught on. “Knees apart.” And when she grumbled, “pull your skirt up.”

So he could see her drawers. She saw satisfaction in his eyes when she was visibly wet.

She walked home, feeling the wetness slide between her legs. She threw herself into her narrow bed and pushed fingers into herself, pinched her breasts. They’re sore, and she likes that, because it feels so good, and it makes her remember his hands putting the clips on. She petted and rubbed her clit a dozen ways until she let herself come, shuddering, always speared on the points of a memory of him.

***

She had been very good. Her work had been immaculate, for a change (she had not tired of the thrill of provoking him in class, though she was careful not to attract attention. He never gave away a thing, except in his eyes, but he took it out on her later. Which was why she did it, of course.)

But today, she played at obedience; her homework was done early, on crisp paper, with elegant, clear figures and detailed proofs. Her uniform was immaculate and modest. She could swear he was amused, especially when she shushed a chatting friend.

Later, bent over his desk: “so. You can be a good girl. Is that what today was meant to prove?” 

“Yes sir.”

“This is the Miss Leonie Barrow I have only met through hearsay.”

She hid her smile, tried to keep it out of her voice. “Yes sir.”

“Which makes your previous insubordination the more insulting.”

Oh. She hadn't thought of it that way. She felt a trickle of apprehension. 

“Push your skirt up.” She did. She never got tired of that. Doing it herself made it twice as forbidden, somehow. “Pull your drawers down.”

Her heart stopped. A wave of heat rolled up her body. What was he going to do? She reminded herself he didn't like to wait, but she couldn't help spinning the moment out. Finding the waistband of her drawers under the rucked-up folds of her skirt, sliding her fingertips under it, then slowly pulling them over the curve of her posterior, down, exposing herself, pushing them down her thighs.

Her heart beat in her throat. What did he see? Did he like it?

She flinched in surprise when something soft landed beside her hands. It was… oh god, it was his gloves. She might faint. She might lose consciousness. She might scream the moment he touched her and make an idiot of herself. He had taken them off. Was he going to touch her there?

The first slap landed on her upturned bottom. It was followed by several more, landing on her buttocks and thighs. Again, her skin heated, became so sensitive. She was making little sounds now. His hand was in her back, pushing it down into the right position again, and the other ran an electric finger down her wet, wet seam. She gave a half-sob and tried to push herself into his hand, but his palm in her back didn't let her move. 

“ _Please_.”

“Will you be a good girl? Will I see more of this paragon?” He divided her lips, held them open. 

_Yes, I'll be good, I'll be so good._ She nodded frantically.

_Oh, God, fuck me_ , she thought.

And he pushed into her with his fingers, and she bit down on her lip in a way that would have hurt if she hadn't been so hot with pleasure. Both his hands were on her now, pressing and stroking her clitoris and prying her open. He could feel her arousal in the frantic grasp of her pussy, the jerky movements of her hips. “Come,” he growled, and she did, on his hands, on the new, harsh word on his lips.

She didn't always earn it. Sometimes he was displeased, even when she had tried hard, and then there would be stern words and punishments and harsh correctives. She loved those days, too. 

Once he told her to touch herself. He took a seat behind her and marked tests while she, feeling dreadfully self-conscious, rubbed herself until she was ecstatic, hips moving, fingers frantic on her clit. She wished she could see his face; did his marking waver? 

***

A klaxon sounded in the distance. The administrative offices were at the far end of the building, but the warning sound cut through walls and doors. They both recognized the sound from the annual drill: it meant a threat on school property. Staff and students were to lock themselves in, hide, and wait until the signal.

Games forgotten, Leonie straightened. But they were already secured: the door was locked and the windows showed only the sky. 

“Get under the desk.”

“Why?” She buttoned up her shirt.

“Students are to hide and remain quiet until the office sounds the all-clear.”

“So are staff. Anyway, it's probably a drill.”

“Probably.” He was in the depths of his bag, unlocking a box.

“Is that a gun?”

It was a sleek, effective-looking thing. He dropped it into his coat pocket. “Get under the desk.”

“Seriously, are lecturers allowed to go armed on campus? And I’m not going under there unless you join me.”

“Don't be absurd. It's dusty.”

“So it is.”

“I am also your teacher. I could have you suspended for disobeying me, particularly about this.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one being ridiculous.”

“Yes you - fine. You know, it is less trouble to….” It was dusty under the desk, but not cramped. Leonie wouldn't have minded more cramping, but there was space for them both. 

“So, you carry a gun. You wouldn't have struck me as the urban survivalist type.” She tucked her knees in. She hoped he was distracted by the way her skirt showed her knickers at this angle.

“I survive in any environment.” He kept one eye on the door. 

“Do you have a locker of protein bars at home? Oh! A closet full of camouflage. You get together with large men on weekends and practice compound bow archery and talk about emergency reserves of gold and the best composting toilet designs.” 

She was richly rewarded by his expression. “Are you teasing me?”

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“Why do you think I have a gun?” He looked at her.

It wasn't a rhetorical question. He really wanted her to guess. “All right, then. You don't flatter your vanity with waterproof watches or off-road vehicles. Everything you I've seen you wear or use is practical. You don't own a gun because it makes you feel like a big man, or to threaten people with. If you own a gun, it's because you might want to shoot someone.” He nodded slowly.

“You don't like to have your back to a room, even with me. Most of the classrooms have larger windows than this, either outside or onto a hall. At first, I thought it was just coincidence; and then I thought you'd planned it because of… of what we do. But I don't think you planned that, now. Now I wonder if it was for security all along.”

“You're never late for class. You always hand back assignments and tests the second Monday after they're submitted. You have regular habits. But you don't sleep, sometimes. It shows in your eyes.” For the first time, he showed a glimmer of surprise, and she felt a surge of victory. “You are always exactly on time, but toward the beginning of term you failed to show up for a day and a half. The admins were very annoyed. You don't sponsor any societies or clubs - possibly because you hate people, but I also think you have other interests. Unpredictable and absorbing ones. Research of your own, maybe, judging by the data I've seen you working with.” He was outright startled at that. “You don't add up, frankly.”

“That's… tenuous. But intriguing. What else do you imagine about me?”

She smiled. Imagination was easy. “You live alone. Your friends and family, if you have any, are far away. Your house is as much lab as home.”

“You do have a house, for privacy and workspace. Like a serial killer. There's dust on the dining room table and illegal chemicals in the lab. You might be breaking the law, but not for money or status. 

“You have - I imagine - a silent bedroom with perfect white sheets. I imagine you go there after you and I have been together. I lie in my bed and imagine myself there with you, messing up your sheets and your perfect white silence.”

He swallowed. “You are perceptive, about some things.”

“I'm more than your sweet, silent side piece. Sir.”

“Of course you are. Side piece? Really, Barrow.” 

“You're afraid somebody’s coming for you.”

“More rationally concerned than afraid.”

She wished she knew what she had right.

 

***

It took her days to get up the courage to say it. His fingers were deep inside her, and his hold on her hip might bruise. She loved it when it bruised. “Fuck me. Please.”

He didn’t say anything, just pulled her into an orgasm that made her try to contract into a keening ball, despite the obstacle of the table. She had almost forgotten her plea when he replied. 

“No. No….” And he seemed uncertain, for the first time. “But. We may try something new.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I am going to open the door. I am going to let someone in.” He paused in what could have been hesitation. “If that - or if he - displeases you in any way, you are to inform me immediately.” He waited. Her fingers tightened over the key in her right hand. 

She sneaked a glance at the man as Prof. Cabal let him in. He was fit, with hair buzzed short. He was youngish too, but he was effortlessly casual, even in a schoolroom occupied by an armed academic and a student with her skirt flipped over her ass and her drawers pushed down between her knees. He dropped his bag in the corner and skinned out of his t-shirt, revealing pleasant muscles and dark hair. 

“She's nice.” He said it offhand, without smiling. Leonie had the feeling Prof. Cabal didn't appreciate the observation.

He walked up behind her and started on his belt. Some communication passed between the two men. The stranger put a hand on her bottom and stroked her skin. He smoothed quickly down to her slit, where his fingers quickly went from exploratory to enthusiastic. “She’s so wet.”

She waited to hear what Cabal would say. “Not,” he bit off, “for you.” 

“Doesn’t matter to me,” said the stranger, and she could hear the grin in his voice. He undid his belt and she heard him kick his trousers to the side. He must be naked. He must be naked. He was about to do something the two of them had arranged earlier. What was it? What had Cabal arranged or agreed to?

The stranger’s hands returned to her body. His fingers felt different; rougher, larger. There was no pretending this was the professor. He slid them up and down in the mess she was making down her slit. She thought her thighs might be wet too, from earlier. But he hit all the right spots in his exploration, and when he pressed a digit into her, she whimpered and tightened around it. 

He whistled softly. “You were right about that. Now, then,” the he said, pressing something against her opening. She clenched, trying to tighten around him when he wasn't even inside her. The broad, hot thing, yes, the head of his cock, slid over her clit, and she gasped with a cry in it. “I think you are _dying_ for this. I think you’re such a slippery mess you can work it in all on your own. But we’ll make you, if you can’t.” He leaned down over her back and spoke in her ear. “Show me how hot you are for my big cock, you splay-legged tart.”

She tried to tighten around him again. But she looked up at Cabal, pleading. He put his hand under her chin and caressed her check approvingly. “See if you can take all of him. I suspect you cannot.”

She nodded. Given permission, she rolled her hips back. Her eyes grew big as the pressure grew; he wasn't just boasting. But the stretch felt like magic when she eased the first heavy inches of him inside. Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth went slack, so close to Prof. Cabal’s trousers. Oh god, she thought, what if Prof. Cabal let her suck him while the stranger’s enormous dick slid into her? 

She heard the stranger’s breath come thick and fast as she struggled to sink back farther. In the silence, she heard her teacher swallow. She was obeying some internal rhythm, now, as she pushed herself back and forth on that huge intrusion. But he was enormous, and she hadn’t quite….

She felt hard hands on her hips, stilling her. “Amateur hour’s over, darling.” And he held her in place and pressed home another inch, and, she could swear, another. Oh god. She cried out as if it hurt, and it did, but it felt absolutely splendid at the same time. Use me, she thought. Treat me like some fuckdoll you bought in a store. Open me up with that huge thing. She murmured filthily in her head until she could feel his groin against her ass. She was motionless, stuffed, conscious of nothing but how this must look to Cabal; her obvious lust, her submission, her pleasure in being loaned to some man she’d never seen before. She hoped he approved how hard she had tried to follow his instructions, how happily she had taken the consequences of her failure. She imagined him stroking himself at the scene, while her eyes were closed. God, what if he came on her. She moaned softly into the table, and the stranger stayed still, buried in her. He shuddered. “Make that sound again, girl, and I’ll do whatever he does to you. I’ll do it twice on Sundays.” But she didn’t hear him, almost. All her attention was on Cabal.

And then, one gloved hand moved idly in her hair. “He's big, isn't he. You’re a good girl; you’re taking his cock so well. So well.” She whined in ecstasy, and clenched her muscles around the hard thing inside her. She was a good girl. She was pleasing him. “Continue,” he instructed the man behind her. And his gloved hands covered hers, where they lay flat on the table to either side; it looked like a restraint. It was an embrace. 

“I’d love to get a feel of those tits.”

Her shirt came off, and the strangers’ hands grabbed at her breasts, feeling the size and weight of them, pinching her nipples as he fucked her. She cried out in disorganised, ecstatic sensation. It would have been agonizing if she hadn’t been so full of pleasure; as it was, it didn’t take long for her to come. And when Cabal moved one hand to her hair and raised her head, she knew it was to see the thing he’d never seen before: her face as the orgasm took her. She tightened on the cock filling her from behind and cried out and convulsed so he had to grab hard at her hips, but all the pleasure she took was from the man before her, who held her eyes as she came. When he released her hair, she kissed the gloved hand that still rested on hers. She hadn’t meant to do that. She was so grateful, so sated, so understood. 

His grip tightened on her for a moment.

The fucking went on for a while after that. She relished it still, the way it rubbed her sore nipples on the desk, the warm brush of his balls on her thighs, the stretching-too-deep feeling that was making her hot again. She moaned. She went rigid, letting herself feel the brutality of the assault on her softest flesh. “My god, but she’s thirsty,” and he slipped two fingers on to her clitoris. “How does that make it feel, then? Do you want more? Tell me you do. Ask nicely.” 

“Yes. Yes, please. Oh, please.” His finger curled around her clit, and she put her forehead down on the desk and moaned and hunched into herself as she came and came and came on the stranger’s brutally deep final strokes. He pulled out. She let herself slump onto the wood.

Cabal and the stranger conferred quietly, and he slipped out the door with a cheery “see you, love!”

She was still breathing hard when she raised her head from the desk. She must have looked half-wild, with her hair everywhere and her mouth and eyes open. She needed a glass of water. She needed to clean up. What, she thought, do I do after that? But Cabal was there, with cloths and a thermos of tea. He had planned this, of course. She tidied herself, though he took the cloth from her when her hands were unsteady. She drained the thermos. She still felt disorganized and exposed, like she’d lost her skin. Vulnerable. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk home.

He looked her over, still shirtless and silent, and he tutted quietly. He let them through a door she hadn’t noticed. It led into a narrow room fitted out as an office. There was an armchair with a reading light and a thick, glowing rug by it. He sat in the chair, and she sank down gratefully on the soft rug at his feet. She leaned against his leg, and he guided her head until it was resting in his lap. One of his hands rested gently on her shoulder, and the other slowly stroked her hair. It made her think of his hand in her curls earlier, while she was getting that fucking. She shuddered with pleasure at the memory, and his hand stilled for a moment until she settled. 

When her blood slowed and she shivered, he moved. Leonie raised her head, wondering if he was going to stand. She supposed this warm, still interlude was over, and she wanted to thank him, but couldn’t think how. But he was shrugging out of his coat; for the first time, she saw him out of it. He wrapped it around her and settled back into his chair. 

Her eyes prickled with tears as she pulled it on. It was warm from his body, lined with something silky. It was ridiculous - that she would rather be sitting on the rug than in the chair. That she should be so moved by something as tiny as the coat. But with his fingers slipping through her curls, his hand warm on her shoulder, wrapped in his clothing and in the warm quiet of his sanctuary, she felt as pampered as a rich man’s pet. Prized. She soaked it up, into every fibre.

He waited like that, silent, petting her, until she was ready to move. She did, at last; her neck was getting a crick, and the hour must be advancing. 

She stretched, and the lining of the coat slid against her skin again; she shivered. She turned to him, with a soft smile to show she was better now, that he had done that. But she no sooner met his eyes than her gaze was drawn back down his body. A shape in his trousers; curving thickly against the constraint of the black wool, his hard cock.

He had sat there, breath even and calming, stroking her hair for she didn't know how long, while _that_ was going on. She didn’t know if that kind of control frightened her or not. Not, she thought. 

She felt so close to him, right now. She shifted her posture into a kneel. “Please.”

“What do you want?”

The coolness of his voice was a warning. He knew what she wanted. He hadn’t missed her staring, the shift in her breathing.

“Will you let me, please?”

“No.” He dismissed it with mock-patience. As if she’d asked to paint the room chartreuse or for him to read her a story. _Read me a story, professor_. 

“I want to.”

“So you have said. I thought you understood: you don’t make those decisions here.”

Oh, for the love of god. Wasn’t this what men were supposed to want? Didn’t they long to have young women kneeling on the floor, politely supplicating them, please, sir, may I fellate you? And yet he sat there, eyes falling on the inner curves of her breasts that were revealed by his suit jacket, his member almost visibly pulsing though the fine fabric… oh hell, her mouth was watering. Why wouldn’t he put a hand on the back of her neck and _pull her between his legs_? She could picture that very clearly. Her pulse sped up.

“Barrow, it is past time for you to be home. You are going to have to explain yourself to your aunt as it is.’ Her head snapped up. “Yes, I know that you live with your aunt. And other things”

He was trying to distract her. “Bugger my aunt, sir.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You arranged today for me. Didn’t you. Because you knew I wanted it.”

His face softened. His lips curved just a little at one side, and he spoke almost tenderly; “you needed to be fucked.”

Oh, god, she was wet again. And she wanted to touch him so badly. “Yes. I did. Thank you, sir.”

“And now you can go home.”

“How can I go home without saying thank-you?”

“You just did. You’re a very well-brought-up young lady,’ he said, his eyes playing over her chest again with some irony. “Your offer is noted and rejected.”

It stung, like a slap. “And that’s how it’s going to be?” 

“That is exactly how it will be.” His voice was hard and cold as industrial tile - but there was something in his eyes. 

Her key made two separate clicks as it met the floor. She withdrew her hand, leaving it there. She held her breath. That was her ultimatum: I’ll leave, and I won’t come back. Take it or leave it. She wiped tension from her shoulders. Her head sank down. She was peace. She was acceptance. She didn’t want to force him to do anything; she had just found a limit. 

She wanted to be closer. She wanted to touch him, please him. If he couldn’t allow that, she should go. She took a deep breath and sighed it out, not looking at his face. She slipped out of his coat, folded it, and draped it over the arm of his chair. “Thank you.”

She started to rise from her knees. Just as she shifted her weight forward, there was a hand on her neck, and he pulled her to him, between his thighs, face an inch from his waistcoat. Her breasts pressed against his groin. “ _Thank you_ ,” she whispered, full of gratitude and happiness as he used his grip on her neck to push her lower. 

She hadn’t done this many times, but she learned quickly, and he was halfway to climax before she touched him. He was silent, but he couldn’t keep himself from breathing, from jerking his hips when she surprised him, from clenching his hands on the chair like it was going to throw him off. His hands were on her head at the end, lightly containing and guiding her. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, his fingers were laced through her hair. When he came, he took his hands from her as if she burned him. For a moment the stern disciplinarian was gone, replaced by a blond young man with an astonished, blissful expression on his face. Then the lips firmed, the eyes shuttered, and her professor was back. It was both disappointing and reassuring, that instant reassertion of control. 

As she left, about to use the key she reclaimed from the floor, that he spoke again. “There are limits to this, Barrow. What we do stays here, and you graduate soon. This will end, then. You think you want something else, but….” And he stalled there. She left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny; I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when I introduce a male character whose major attributes are, ahem, 'large' and 'casual' and everyone immediately half-wonders if it's Horst. To be clear, the stranger is an original character. Horst would be a) chatty, and b) a complete gentleman, insofar as the situation allowed. He would offer cuddles. Leonie would probably want to keep him. Plus, I don't see Johannes making that invitation, do you?


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, she was sprawled across his desk. They were just about to begin, but she couldn't seem to concentrate. Her thoughts kept drifting to his words. They had troubled her. She had told herself she would enjoy this while it lasted? Even if there were, as he'd said, ‘limits’….. He was about to touch her, and she spoke. “No.”

A word she'd never said to him before. But it was crisp and sure.

He stepped away immediately. “Are you well?” His voice was sharp, but only with concern. He moved so he could see her face. She stood and buttoned up her shirt.

“I'm fine, thank you. But this doesn't feel… right, I suppose.” It had come upon her so suddenly, she hardly knew what to say. “If it's just until the end of term, if it's just here, as you say…” She did up her last button. “I just know I want more. From you. And I don't expect that to happen.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for everything. I mean that. And I'll just see you in class from now on.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stood there like a statue while she unlocked the door with her key, left it on the chalk ledge, and walked out. She didn't cry until she was home, in bed.

***

They ran into each other, once, on the street. She felt hot and then cold when she recognized him. She had a half-serious desire to hide, but that was beneath her dignity. He was dressed heavily for the weather, in coat and boots with a trace of mud on them. He carried a thick leather bag, larger than the case he used for school. The sun beat through leafless branches, warmer by the day, so his eyes were clear behind the blue lenses.

“Miss Barrow.”

“Sir.”

And that was that. He passed her. But what brought him to this quiet neighbourhood on a Saturday evening? She tried not to care. He wasn’t her business. 

Oh, hell. Wouldn’t it have been better to enjoy the rest of the year, on whatever terms he could manage? Maybe she could… she made a sour face to herself. _Maybe she could change him_. Obviously the man is deranging your mind, Barrow. You can’t change anyone. But they can change themselves, if they want to.

***

She didn't ask for a transfer to a different class. It was hardly worthwhile so late in the year, she told herself. She trusted him to mark her work fairly, of course. And given his teaching style, there was very little need for them to exchange a word. The truth was that she still craved the sight of him. When she was absolutely sure he was absorbed in something else, she narrowed her eyes at him across the room and tried to deduce his state of mind. If it wasn’t good for her, well, it couldn’t go on for long.

He didn't show anything at all.

Three weeks of this.

He was reviewing material for the examination when the chalk fell from his hand. It broke in pieces and rolled across the floor. The class, by now thoroughly under his thumb, waited in silence for him to continue. He watched the pieces scatter. “Class is dismissed. Go home.”

“But sir….”

“Now.”

The room scattered in a flurry of book bags and what’s-this-about looks. He sat behind his desk and went through a notebook. Leonie packed slowly, until she was the last one there. 

He dropped the book. He stood so carelessly, tipping his chair over. He crossed the room to her, and she was startled by the leashed energy in his stride. He held something out to her: the key. It was pressed hard between his finger and thumb.

“Yes,” he said. “I agree.”

“You agree?”

“Yes.” 

She was suspicious. Why had he changed his mind? “Yes because I'm leaving anyway? Yes because you can't stop? I want you to tell me why. And perhaps more importantly, exactly what do you think you're agreeing to? I don’t remember making any demands.” His other hand clenched, maybe at her tone. But it was just him and her now: they stood outside rules and roles, and she ceded no authority. She waited for his answer.

“I want to keep seeing you. I want you in my bed. I want you in my life. It will be difficult; you have absolutely no idea. But if you are patient,’ and he took a breath and released it, “we can try.” She shouldn’t believe him. She believed him because he said it would be difficult. She believed him because he was sweating. She believed him because she really, really wanted to, and what was life without a risk?

She nodded. “Shall we go there now?”

“I'm not sure I can wait that long.” And there was a hairline fracture in his voice. 

“Thank god,’ she broke into a smile. “Neither can I.” She stood.

In a moment, she was pressed into the blackboard, her arm high behind her back, the slate cold through her shirt. Her muscles were loose with relief and comfort. It was glorious.

His kisses were hot and open- mouthed on her neck. When she felt his teeth, she pressed her rump back into him. Half of her shirt buttons wound up on the floor, and he was frankly baffled for a moment by the second button of her uniform skirt, so that joined them. She was never entirely sure where her drawers had gone. 

He picked her up bodily and set her on the desk. Out of habit, she started to slide off and bend over it, but he caught her legs and pushed them open. “Not this time.”

He found he was still wearing his gloves, and he cursed and pulled them off. He yanked his coat from his shoulders and let it fall. Leonie sat up and started on his buttons, which earned her a look, but for once, roles gave way to efficiency, and he allowed it. When his waistcoat and shirt were dangling open and she moved to his trouser buttons. He kissed her lips. She could feel him tremble; she realised this was their first kiss. As it deepened, he brought his hands up to cradle her head, caught in a sudden stillness, just their lips, their breath, the sudden intimacy. 

And then she won through the final layer of clothing, and before she could touch him, he bent her her back on the desk, cradling her head up from the hard surface. He stood between her thighs, bending deeply over her.

“Are you sure you want this? Not just this,’ he corrected himself, exasperated. “I am convinced you want this. But all of this. Me.”

“I’ve wanted this since you threw out the attendance sheet, the first week of class.’ He was visibly thrown off. She grinned with her tongue between her teeth, devilish. “It just took some time to get here.”

“You’re a fool. You will find out how much a fool later.”

His body was a delightful surprise - lean and strong and lightly furred with gold. She stroked down his chest. “Hands on the edge of the desk, please.” He ran his hands up her arms, down her chest, down her belly, down her thighs, like he was taking possession. His hand went between her thighs; when she started to protest that she was ready, really, aching for it, would he just get on, his hard hand over her mouth cut off her words. She moaned between his fingers as he set to work on her, face serious, focussed. It was almost too much sensation, and she flinched away. “Take it,” he ordered, and she shuddered, then stilled and let him push more pleasure on her, more, until she was so, so close….

And he changed what he was doing. She started to protest but stopped herself; he wouldn’t like that, and god knows what kind of punishment he might exact now. She didn’t want to tempt him. But as the sensations died down, her greediness flared, and she risked a small, desperate sound. She moved her hips against his slowed fingers. _Please_ , she looked at him? And the look on his face was so tender as he shook his head, _no_. It was almost as good as getting what she wanted. 

But there wasn’t time to be disappointed. Not with his body on top of hers and his lips and teeth on her breasts and just when she was a about to scream with frustration and pleasure, he pushed himself up on one arm over her, and looked her in the eye as he _ohhhhhhh_. Her breath went quick and frantic as he pushed inside her. He kissed her panting mouth and he thrust gently. Her knuckles went white on the desk, and she hoped no one was in the corridor outside, because her grateful moan would have been audible through a vault door.

But he was speaking, harsh and low. “Do you know… how many times I wanted to do this? …how many times… I almost did. Do you have any idea… how I wanted to feel you… cry for me, shake for me… just for me this time.”

The words were better than the feeling of him inside her, and she'd had no idea anything could be better than that. He was ruthless, pushing deep and hard, and his fingertips on her clit making her moan and curl into it, welcoming it. 

She forgot her instructions and dropped the edge of the desk. His skin was soft, with flat muscle under it and strong bones. His hair was soft. She dug her nails into the small of his back, urging him on, urging him to go harder, deeper. 

“Oh,’ he breathed in her ear. “Such a good girl. You can come now, Leonie. Come hard on me. I have you, it's all right.” And his words freed something inside her, and she did, she climaxed in wracking shudders. She could feel the sweet bolts of pleasure that meant she was spasming around him, and the ecstasy that arced her spine and sent her hips pushing into him, her nails shredding his back, his own sudden hard drive into her body, his hand on her shoulder, pushing her body hard down on his cock as he emptied deep inside her.

They stayed entwined: breathing hard, muscles clenched around each other; then relaxing, swallowing, pushing hair out of each others’ eyes. They were giddy. Cabal kissed her over and over, and she, well, it would be hard to call it anything but giggling. Later, in the armchair, she curled in his lap, skin to skin. She dared to kiss her way along his collarbone. He looked down, startled but not displeased. When she settled on his shoulder again, he let his cheek drop to the top of her head. 

“I asked you,’ she said, poking his chest, “why you changed your mind, and you never said.”

“I didn’t change my mind. I always wanted this. Always.” He held her tight. “I just didn’t think it was possible.”

“That’s almost as lovely as it is cryptic, Cabal.”

“Sir,” he corrected her.

“I think I’ll pick and choose the time for that. Did it occur to you that you were going to have to put up with all of me, as well?”

“It is slowly dawning upon me, yes.” He drew a fingernail down her back gently, and she stretched and hummed at the sensation. 

“Don’t worry. If I fail to show the proper respect, you can always remind me.” She sighed happily.

In demonstration, he held her wrists gently with one hand while he kissed her shoulder. “Do I need to steal that desk and take it home?”

“It wasn’t the desk, Herr Professor. It might have been your youthful good looks. It might have been the gloves. It might have been your infuriating attitude.”

“The latter two, at least, are a fixture.”

“You may not have noticed, but you’re only wearing the first of those three, right now. It’s very nice. I like it. I like all of it.” She kissed his ear.

“I like all of you, too.’ He fell silent, thinking and stroking her, and they sat that way for a few minutes before he roused himself from the reverie. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Tea.”


End file.
